


Into the Valley

by zvezda



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Rough Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 05:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11029368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zvezda/pseuds/zvezda
Summary: Wesker goes into the valley in search of the sacred lily of the sun.  There lies a dying culture, yearning for the king.





	Into the Valley

The heat of the sun beat down on the cloth top of the all wheel drive jeep, jumbling down an unused service road that twisted down into the solitary valley, the world vanishing beneath the edge of a rough hewn mountain range.  The winding road descended;  the thick acacia brush growing dense and close, branches scraping along the army green exterior of the jeep, the open windows inviting a scratch to the passengers confined to the sweaty interior.

The driver was an ebony-skinned man, his eyes almost as black as a bleak night sky, bearing the independent military fatigues of the local gang.  He knew this path well.  They went about four miles in, before the jeep had stopped.  
  
“No further,”  the guide said.  "No man’s land.“

A single passenger smiled.  Blond hair, which had been perfectly brushed back this morning in the little hovel of a hotel, was now struggling to stay in place as the humidity deepened with the setting sun. 

The door opened, the man stepped out. One would think wearing black is almost masochistic in this climate.  He seemed unperturbed by the heat crawling into the valley as the sun began to set, the sky red like blood spilling into a vast, dark ocean.

The path narrowed to almost a shoulders’ width, barring any further access by any vehicle besides.  He listened to the engine rumble distantly as the jeep began to back up, find a spot to turn around.  Then that was gone, and the quiet buzzing of evening insects filled the heavily saturated air.

Albert Wesker went down into the valley.  
  


* * *

  
  
Insects began to flood the air - mosquitoes almost the size of his hand.  He swatted them aside.  They flooded to him, interested in the heat they smelled, the unusual blood in his veins.  The long sleeves and tough material persuaded them to find a feast elsewhere, and the more persistent were destroyed.

There came a point where he had to stoop beneath thorn bushes as the darkness developed the landscape into nothing but rough shapes stripped from blackness.  To anyone else, this place would become a suffocating, thorny hell. To him, it boded no danger. None whatsoever.  
  
Finally, he emerged, birthing from a twig-riddled canal into an open night.  And he was not alone.

Stooped in the darkness,  the new guide raised a lit torch of tree sap and twisted cloth.  An embroidered, beaded cloth wrap around the waist, large-boned and sturdy.  A heavy and ornate mask concealed the face.  Arm raised, the torch gestured down to the village.  A large fire burned at the center of a community. Small thatch-roofed family huts ringed around in a horse shoe shape.  A fence crafted of thick, thorny bushes deterred the natural predators.

_Follow the leader, hm?_  
  
They walked down a well-beaten path into the village proper.  Children came out to look at him; scrawny little things, their hardy calloused feet slapping on the dry earth as they darted near him and danced away with an air of cheeky playfulness.  It was jarring to see them in T-shirts in popular sports teams.  They followed at a distance, kicking around a worn leather ball.  Wesker smiled at them, showing his teeth.  They took off while the littlest ones stood peering around their mothers, similarly wearing skirts and shirts that had seen much mending.  Simple jewelry adorned their ears, little colorful necklaces made of string.  
  
A wealth of faces gathered near the far edge of town. Women and children withdrew from the light of the bonfire.  Wesker squared his shoulders, eyes drawn to the decorative figure dressed before him.  Tall and impossibly ancient, with a face full of crags, with the same black eyes of his driver. Yet they sparkled with a fierce, bright intelligence.  Only he was privy to the secret knowledge which Wesker sought so fervently.  As the others in the village were drawn from their heritage by necessity, for survival, this man clung to dying traditions.

Without a word he took his strange visitor by the arm and pulled him into a fragrant, smoky darkness.  Small coals in a pit upon the floor and in the back of the hut, upon an altar with paintings of the rising sun - again and again, with beams of light bursting forth from a radiant center.  
  
Among the sun paintings, the flowers spread, their petals soft and new.  The scent of them was heady, made all the thicker and cloying by the coals.  The decorated native - Wesker thought shaman - directed him to come closer.  He pulled at his sleeve, speaking a broken patois of English and his language.  
  
"No, no.  Take.”  
  
“Take it off?”  
  
His lip curled.  But that face, craggy and immobile, did not harbor any malignant intent.  Wordlessly did he unzip the collar of his shirt, down, tugging it from the waistband of his trousers.   While he worked, the shaman turned away.  He put a clay pot in the coals - small enough for a tiny bit of water.  This water, he added from another container made of metal, wrapped in thin strings of leather.  
  
He let the water warm up and boil.  He blew on the coals, and sparks rose, spiraling to the hole above in the ceiling.   The shaman gestured, down, down.  So Wesker knelt.  And then to his shock the man was grumbling and pointing down.  
  
He brought up one foot and began to unlace his boots and the shaman nodded emphatically.  
  
He bunched up the moisture-wicking socks and tucked them into each boot, sliding them aside.  The shaman immediately moved close to him.  
  
Gnarled old hands felt him, pale palms pressing and squeezing his shoulders and arms and even his hands.  Took his forearm, pinching hard near his elbow and letting go quickly.  Wesker grimaced.  
  
Satisfied, the shaman began to speak fluently, darkly.  So low it sounded like growls.  He plucked the flowers gently from the throne, using a gentle grasp.  He used a stone with a round well-worn depression, placing several petals into it with an air of ceremony and great respect.  He ground it up with a second stone.  Into the water it went, as it boiled away.  
  
The flower was translated roughly into “Stairway to the Sun”.  It was said that multiple men would take into their bodies the flower, which was highly toxic to humans.  But it was this flower that contained a rare double-stranded DNA compound. What would be called the progenitor virus to those in Wesker’s field of expertise.  
  
It was so close within his grasp.  Part of him simply wanted to break the old man’s neck and take samples back with him.  Yet something in the fire, in the air, begged him to continue with the ruse.   His head felt heavy.  The air caressed his skin. The occasional breeze from the enroaching night outside made his nerves stand on end.  
  
Soon, the shaman fetched the boiling brew with an animal cloth, handling it with the utmost care. His eyes glanced upward,  holding that infernal gaze.  His breath inhaled sharply.  He set the pot on the ground, with the animal skin beneath it.  
  
It was clear he was meant to drink it.    
  
The liquid steamed, the scent fragrant of dark, wet earth and something deliciously sweet.  
  
Wesker leaned over it, felt the tickle of it against his face, his eyes closed.  Drew in a deep lungful of air.   Upon exhaling, he was already intoxicated.  He took up the wooden cup with his bare hands and blew on it, before he took a daring gulp.  It was scalding hot.  His eyes burned with pain but he didn’t stop, and it seared down his throat.  He drank and drank, no matter the hurt, his chest a column of fire.  
  
It billowed like a cloud from within.  Like a volcanic heat, filling the spaces in between his thoughts.  His eyes blurred and his skin felt like it would blister from the heat.  He sank onto his side, leaning on his elbow.  The shaman was shaking and speaking jargon - a bubbling noise of words he couldn’t keep up with.  He was fanning him, buffeting his skin with a tied bunch eucalyptus leaves.  The little hut spun.  Voices gathered around, one man shouting.  
  
Somehow, he found equilibrium and sat up. He pressed his hands into the heavy dirt and pushed himself upright. Someone grabbed onto his arm and helped him to his feet, and swept him outside.  A cheer went up.  The cold air woke him up like a bucket of icy water.  
  
They say the one who took into them the flower and survived was their crowned King.  Sun King.  
  
Was that what they were chanting?  
  
The bonfire’s light was blinding to his eyes.  He was swept into a fray.  Music played, haunting singing, shrill flutes.   The flower burned him.  His skin felt every voice like a caress, fiery hunger in his blood.   He heard colors, tasted joy like honey pouring endlessly on his tongue.  Someone pulled him from the throng of bodies; perfumed skin,  strong limbs and silk smooth.  
  
He had her before she could slip away, not daring to let her escape.  His arms tightened, his tongue pressing against her throat and he knew the secret at once.  She had rubbed her flesh with the raw flower.  It was on her skin like a powder.  It was dusted in her hair, which caressed his skin - it was clean and soft, scrubbed with a floral oil.    
  
He carried her into a numbing and comfortable darkness, piled blankets underneath them. He rid himself of the trousers, suffocating under the layer.  His body prickled with every breath she gave, every wanton touch of her hands on his skin, as if she’d never seen a man before in her life.  
  
She murmured adoringly.  Her eyes held his and there was a frozen breath.  But her gasp was muffled with his mouth as if she saw the devil himself.  Wesker robbed the breath from her lips.  He left no room for fear or second-guessing; felt her desperate struggle give way, her parted thighs hugging his hips, then arching.  Her bare feet pressed into the backs of his calves, writhing like an oily serpent in the dark.  Arching her back, her glossy dark flesh flashing in the distant bonfire’s light.  
  
Gathering her breasts, he sucked at them as if he could pull the sweet flowery nectar from her like milk.   They had felt heavy, hard before as she danced with him, twirled with him.  Her eyes squeezed shut;  he tasted the flower on her erect nipples.  His cock throbbed with potent, vibrant lust; it robbed him senseless.  Heedless of the world and all its prying eyes, he plunged into drugged hot bliss. Hands in his hair, pressing him to her.  
  
She was tall, long-legged, sinuous against his feverish body.  She cried out, her expression twisted with pain and pleasure as he filled her again and again and again, brutal, selfish sex; heroically she bore it, twisting her hands in the blankets, the pulsing throb of the distant music loud, driving him with its quickening, mad rhythm.  
  
He bruised her, this strange temptress, the living embodiment of all he craved, all he needed in life.   When he finished with her, he was cold and sore and exhausted as he had never been in years.  He slept like the dead, the brave woman small as she curled up against his chest, too tired, too terrified to leave him.  His head buzzed with the flower, its petals dancing behind his closed eyelids,  like the sparks of the bonfire, floating into the blackened sky.


End file.
